The Champagne Effect
by nabawrites
Summary: Bruce gets drunk then goes out on patrol. The results are simultaneously hilarious and dangerous. When Alfred can't get him back on his own, and since Robin's away on Young Justice business, Alfred calls Superman.


The Champagne Effect - Oneshot

Bruce was so tired. He was tired of getting hurt every night. He was tired of hiding it the next morning. He was tired of hearing Alfred's lectures. He was tired of pretending to be playboy Bruce Wayne. He was tired of being tired, of never actually getting even five consecutive hours of sleep. A part of him was even tired of being Batman. He really was tired.

But more than anything, he was tired of trying not to be human. Of ignoring his broken ribs as he did anything, from laughing as Bruce to fighting as Batman. Of pretending he was never afraid of anything. Of pretending he didn't care about the people that surrounded him: Alfred, Dick, the members of the Justice League. Hell, even that Wally kid had started growing on him. He was tired of hiding that he had a heart.

He was tired of being in denile, too. Bruce was a good swimmer, but even he got tired (undoubtedly do to the fact that he was a human being with actual limits that he never seemed to acknowledge). Eventually, he couldn't keep himself afloat in that river in Egypt, and now he was drowning in all the lies he fed to the world and to himself everyday.

The lie that he was apathetic to people he actually cared about. The lie that he was straight. The lie that Batman had no time for petty things like Love. The lie that he was too busy saving Gotham, saving the world, to care about somebody on that level.

The lie that Batman couldn't fall in love.

Of course he had tried not to. He had done everything in his power to avoid it. He ignored him, distanced himself from him, avoided him like the plague, was rude to him in an effort to receive the same treatment back, told himself over and over again that the long list of cons greatly outweighed the short pile of pros, most of which might never exist, so it was only logical to avoid those messy things called feeling. He reminded himself that it was foolish to fall in love, because anything that falls ends up braking. Batman, and Bruce Wayne too, had broken far too many times to risk it again. It was far too dangerous to fall, to risk it. The only way it was safe, the only way he could consider entertaining the possibility of allowing these feelings was if he was sure he would be caught when he eventually fell. Batman was too heavy for the average person to catch.

But Superman was above average. Superman was very strong. And Superman excelled at catching people who fell.

In the end, Bruce could do nothing about it. He fell. He fell for those eyes as blue as the sky. He fell for that curly piece of hair that never seemed to stay wherever Superman swept it away. He fell for that dazzling smile, for the genuine concern every time Batman sustained the slightest injury, for the Southern drawl that would cling to his voice whenever he was out of the suit and just being Clark Kent. He fell for those muscles that were definitely strong enough to support him, to be there when he needed help lifting the insurmountable burden that was Gotham. He fell for the strong chest that Bruce knew could take his weight if he needed someone to lean on. Oh, how he fell.

It was a fall he wasn't sure he could survive.

You see, Superman could only catch him if he knew Bruce was falling. It wasn't as if Bruce would tell him of these sticky feelings he couldn't seem to rid himself of. He couldn't inform the indestructible alien of just how human Batman was. No, he would continue to fall in secret. And that meant no one would know when to catch him. Not even the man who could see through walls and hear the flap of a butterfly's wings from across three lanes of rush hour traffic. Not even Reporter Clark Kent who's job it was to find out every little fact, every juicy detail.

No. Batman was doomed to fall. To fall, alone, with no one there to catch him before he shattered and splintered on the ground.

Bruce was so tired.

That was the reason why he was there, in his room at the Wayne Manor, draining an entire bottle of champagne. Champagne is the drink of victory, of celebration, so it felt quite ironic to be drinking it when he felt so much like he was failing. Truth be told, it was the weakest spirit Bruce Wayne possessed, and he knew he'd have to go on patrol as the Caped Crusader that night. He wouldn't let himself get so completely drunk that he was incapable of protecting his city.

Besides, he only planned to have one glass.

He kept telling himself that. After every drink, after every long swallow as he gulped down the spirit, he told himself he was just having one. And then he'd pour himself another glass.

He was still drowning in that river in Egypt. But now the river tasted and smelled like expensive champagne. Bruce reveled in it. It enjoyed while it lasted, because he knew he would not allow himself this sort of escape again for a long time.

Bruce only had one. Bottle, that is. Just the one bottle of champagne and he was done. He hid the bottle when he'd finished. He didn't want Alfred to find it. It wasn't like Bruce Wayne was ashamed of drinking some alcohol. It was that Bruce knew Alfred would do everything he could (including a skillfully executed guilt trip) to get him to stay home that night. Bruce wouldn't let that happen.

Bruce, unfortunately, was a ridiculous drunk. He didn't get all moody and broody like some. He didn't crash and burn for hours after the initial consumption, so he spent hours in a high, as though he were hyped up on drugs or loopy gas.

That was why Bruce was giggling like a little girl as he slipped into his black suit. That was why he stood in front of the mirror for five minutes making fun of the silly ears on his costume. That was why he turned off all the lights in the Batcave to spend another 15 minutes messing around with his flashlight and making shadow shapes and pictures on the wall with his fingers. That was why he rolled down the window of the Batmobile as he drove through Gotham at top speed, blasting 'Wanted Dead Or Alive' as loud as he could from the speakers, screaming along with all his might.

That was why, when he took down some robbers, he hooked his cape with his fingers, flapped his arms like a bird, yelling out, in the midst of his giggles, "I am the niiight!" Giggle. "I am vennngencccce!" Giggle. "I am... the Baaatmaaaan!" Giggle giggle.

It was only minutes after that when Alfred found the empty champagne bottle, wisely hidden in the pantry behind the butler's personal supply of Nutella. He quickly realized the problem that was at hand, knowing Master Bruce had left about an hour earlier for patrol.

Robin was out on a mission with the other teen heroes, so Alfred resigned himself to verbal contact with a very drunk Bruce in order to urge his return to the Manor. He quickly ventured down to the cave and opened the line to Bruce's earpiece.

"Master Bruce?"

"Alfred! Hey, man, how are you? Do we have any spaghetti-os?"

Alfred sighed. It was worse than he thought. "No, Master Bruce. We do not. I must request that you return to the Manor, sir."

"What? Alfred, I can't do that! My city neeeeeds me." He slurred the words, making it painfully obvious just how drunk he was. "I am the sssaavior of Gotham! I am the Dark Knight! I am, nanananana- BatMan!"

Internally face palming, Alfred tried logic, though it was not likely to work in this case. "Master Bruce, you probably aren't in the best of conditions at the moment. You'll do Gotham far more good after you've slept off your inebriated state, don't you think, sir?"

"Nope." Bruce popped the 'p' and giggled.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the sound. "Very well, Master Bruce."

Alfred hung up and, after a moment's contemplation, he called Master Kent.

The ringing of his phone jerked Clark awake. There wasn't much night life in Metropolis, so Clark was catching as much sleep as he could until his next call from the League with a mission. Bemoaning the interruption of some much needed R & R, the alien stumbled out of bed and over to his phone. Checking the caller ID, he sighed in resignation when he saw it was the Batcave. He answered with a yawn. "Bruce?"

"No, Master Kent. This is Alfred, Master Bruce's butler."

With furoughed eyebrows, Clark fought another yawn. "Oh, hey Alfred. What's up?"

"Are currently engaged in anything of particularly grave importance, Master Kent?"

Clark actually considered lying for a few seconds before he remembered that literally every person with any connection to Bruce Wayne was a ninja with mad skills, which he figured that meant that Alfred would know if he lied. "No, Alfred. Is something wrong?"

Clark heard the Butler clear his throat. "I'm afraid so, Master Kent. Master Bruce is in need of your... assistance."

Clark's eyebrows rose into his hairline at the words. "Alfred, does he know this, or are you taking some initiative again? Because last time you did that, Bruce wasn't very happy with either of us."

Hearing a soft chuckle, Clark released some of the worried tension in his muscles. "Master Kent, he is not at all aware of our conversation, and he will not at first be in anyway grateful to you for your assistance, most likely. It will only dawn on him how necessary your intervention is when he becomes sober."

"Sober, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Kent." Clark heard the old man let put a sigh. "Regretfully, Master Bruce is terribly drunk, in the Batman suit, loose on the streets of Gotham."

A pit settled itself in Clark's stomach as he recognized the full gravity of the situation. "I'm on my way, Alfred."

He hung up before the man could reply. Struggling more than usual due to his panic, Clark slipped into his suit and employed all his superhuman strength to tug on his boots. The only thing that accomplished was him tearing through the tough fabric. Luckily, Clark was always prepared for that sort of problem, and he quickly ventured into his closet to search for his spare pair.

Being much more careful, Clark managed to get fully dressed. He was out the window in seconds, silently flying to Gotham. When he arrived, he employed his supervision to find Bruce, knowing it would be faster than asking Alfred for coordinates.

Clark spotted the man, who appeared to be engaged with a group of thugs. Huffing in slight irritation, and no small amount of amusement at the situation, he darted down to assist his friend.

Bruce was enjoying himself. Immensely. It was always satisfying to him to punch away his worries, his problems drifting away with every crack of broken bones against his fist.

The Batman dealt out a devastating blow to one thug before pivoting and kicking another into the alley wall. He heard the man's skull crack against the brick (not dead, only unconscious, he noted), and the remaining criminals exchanged wary glances. Batman giggled.

Before anyone could do anything more, the wind slightly picked up as Superman flew onto the scene. He did his awesome superhero landing before slowly standing up straight.

Bruce pouted. "I wish I had an awesome superhero landing. All I ever do is scowl at bad guys and then punch them."

Superman shot him a strange look. All the thugs, quite wisely in Batman's opinion, ran off in an instant, abandoning their fallen comrades to be wrath of the World's Finest.

"Batman, I think it's time to get you back to the cave."

Batman snorted in an entirely undignified manner. "How about no, Supey Dupey Man." He went to take a step down the alley when his legs caved out from under him. He sank to the ground like an anchor sinks through water, and he leaned his back against the alley wall, a look of awe on his face. "Woah. I just fell."

Superman gave him a concerned look as he nodded. Bruce looked down at his stomach, touching his gloved fingertips to a hole in his suit. They came away coated with red and he giggled. "I made paint." He turned his upper body to face the wall and used the blood on his fingers to draw a big smiley face on the wall. Deciding it wasn't quite right, he managed to add in a nose real quick before Superman got there and gripped his wrist.

"Batman, stop. We need to get you to the cave." Superman was part revolted, part shocked, and part worried for his friend at what he was seeeing. His first thought was to take him to the Watchtower for medical treatment, but it was currently under reconstruction, courtesy of Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter. Clark knew Alfred had the ability to mend Bruce, so he figured that was a good second choice, seeing as it was nearby. It wasn't as if Superman could take Batman to the nearest hospital.

Bruce shook his head, a pouting expression on his face. "But I'm not done with my picture." He used his bloody fingers to point at the smeared red face on the brick wall.

Superman swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. "You can draw later. Right now, we need to get you cleaned up. Come on." Clark hefted Bruce up onto his feet. When Bruce went to take a step, his legs crumpled under him again, but Clark was ready this time. He smoothly caught the Caped Crusader, lifting him up into his arms bridal style.

Clark had assumed Bruce would complain and protest about his decision, but all he did was giggle. "I fell again," he said.

Clark nodded. "Yes, you did."

Bruce's grin was smug, and Clark swore he'd never seen the man so expressive before. "You caught me. I fell and you caught me."

Raising an eyebrow, Superman rose off the ground and began the short flight to the Batcave. "Yes, I did."

Bruce's smile turned soft, content, and he snuggled into Clark's chest. The reporter's breath hitched, but he did his best not to show it and focused on getting his friend the help he obviously needed.

Clark's single minded focus was shattered when Bruce spoke again. "Hey, Clark?"

The alien cleared his throat. "Yeah, Bruce?" They were high enough no one would be able to hear them, so Clark humored Bruce's desire to use real names, seeing it as a step up from 'Supey Dupey Man.'

"Can you keep a secret, Clark?"

Clark looked down at Bruce, a fond smile on his face. "Yes, Bruce. I can keep a secret."

Bruce smiled, wrapping his arms around Clark's neck and bringing his lips close to whisper against the shell of Clark's ear. "I'm in love with you."

Clark's jaw dropped and he nearly lost his grip on the vigilante in his arms. His breath hitched and his heart stuttered and all his blood rushed past his ears. He was struggling to find a way to reply when Bruce giggled and promptly fell asleep with his head resting on Clark's shoulder.

Bruce Wayne woke up the next morning to a pounding headache and an intense pain throbbing in his lower abdomen. He groaned, rolling over onto his side in an effort to escape the late morning sun shining through the curtains in his bedroom.

He ran a hand down over the bandages on his stomach, discerning that it was a knife wound causing him so much pain. His mind gave him flashes of memories from the night before, including one of the drug dealer who had given him the wound. He groaned again, the memories not helping the pulsing pain in his skull.

Finding his shoulder to be very bruised and not comfortable to lay on, he rolled onto his back once again and sighed. He ignored the headache in favor of sorting through whatever he could remember of the night before.

He remembered sulking over his unwanted love for the overgrown boy scout. He remembered drinking to drown out some of the pain and exhaustion. He remembered getting into his suit. Everything after that was blurry, too blurry to comprehend. Bruce could have sworn he remembered seeing the very object of his affections at some point, but it was probably just a hallucination from the pain, alcohol, and pure desire.

A knock sounded on the door, and Bruce dismissed his thoughts in favor of shouting permission to enter. Alfred walked in with a tray of breakfast and some pain meds. With at grateful sigh, Bruce forced himself to sit up and slide his legs off the bed. He didn't stand up. He just sat there, with his head in his hands as he wondered how he got home from his night being drunk on the town.

Looking down to find himself in nothing but his underwear, his suit being stripped in order for his wounds ro be tended to, he sighed and stood up, delaying his inevitable push ups until he had at least gotten some pain meds in his system. Bruce walked over to the tray and took the two pills sitting there, drawing them in a full glass of water immediately after.

The billionaire glanced over at his butler to thank him, but he was suddenly frozen in the middle of the motion. There, leaning against the doorway behind Alfred, was him. The Boy Scout. The Man of Steel.

Clark Kent.

Clark had had a long night. After he got Bruce back to the cave, decidedly ignoring what Bruce had said until an unknown later date, he helped Alfred bring him into the mansion to his bedroom, strip of the suit, which was incredibly awkward for him (you have not seen a blush until you've seen Clark Kent blush at a mostly naked Bruce Wayne), and tend to the Bat's many wounds.

Besides the stab wound in his abdomin, Bruce had many bruises, all over his body, and deep teeth marks in his left calf, presumably from a dog. Clark had helped the Butler clean off the dried blood, disinfect the wound, and stitch it up. He then held Bruce up while Alfred wrapped the bandages around his middle, which was a fairly odd situation to be in.

He had spent the next few hours laying in the guest room nearby, trying to sleep but failing as he hung on every one of Bruce's heart beats, exhales, inhales, shifts of weight. Anything and everything. Any movement Bruce made was immediately heard and drawn attention to by the alien. He had spent the night sleepless, or what was left of it, at least, and had known the moment Alfred got up to go about his daily duties. Clark had decided to go ahead and get up to keep the butler company. He spent the last four and a half hours talking with him and learning more about Bruce: from his childhood, to his early days as Batman, to his recent struggles. Bruce hadn't ever said anything to Alfred, but, just as Clark had thought, the man was just as much of a ninja as Bruce, and nobody could keep anything from him for long.

Apparently, Bruce had been spending more time than usual in the suit. He wasn't even doing patrols or going on missions. He just sat at the Watchtower, pitching in or running surveillance or doing absolutely nothing. Clark had also noticed the increase in time Batman spent with the League, but he hadn't realized how drastic it was until Alfred explained how much had changed.

After what Bruce had told him only hours prior, Clark couldn't help but wonder what had changed, if it had anything to do with him, and if Bruce truly had meant those words.

Now, Clark was leaning with a shoulder against the doorframe of Bruce's bedroom, watching over Alfred's shoulder as Bruce struggled to his feet and shuffled to the breakfast tray. He noticed that Bruce went for the pills first, but not as much and he noticed every shift in every muscle of Bruce's mostly exposed body. It was nothing new, those muscles, nor was Clark's attraction to them, and the man they belonged to. But after last night's words, Clark felt his observations carried an extra weight that they hadn't had before.

That weight was hope.

He hoped that Bruce had meant it when he said he loved him. He hoped that Bruce wanted him as much as Clark wanted Bruce. He hoped that the words hadn't just been something generated by the alcohol in Bruce's system, though the confession of them obviously was. He hoped that something about their relationship would shift from the entirely platonic to something more romantic. Oh, how Clark hoped.

But he worried too. He worried that Bruce hadn't meant it. He worried that Bruce remembered and was ashamed, or didn't remember and would shut Clark down if he tried to bring it up. He worried that it wouldn't change anything and Clark would be stuck pining for an unattainable man.

When Bruce looked over at Alfred and caught a glimpse of Clark, the alien heard his heard skip a beat. He heard his breath hitch. He saw the nanosecond that Bruce froze in his movements. Never before had he been so grateful for the fact that he was an alien.

Then the moment was over. Bruce thanked Alfred for the pills, took several long gulps of coffee, and grabbed a piece of toast.

"How'd you know I was awake, Alfred? Or was it just lucky timing?"

Alfred smiled slightly at the question and gestured at Clark. "Master Kent heard you moving about."

Bruce nodded, looking over Clark. The man felt exposed, though he was the one who was fully dressed. He shivered at the sweep of Bruce's eyes over his body, and he wondered for a moment if Bruce caught the motion. "Well, thank you for that, I suppose. Are you here on league business, Clark?"

Clark swallowed thickly, ignoring the pang of disappointment that Bruce didn't remember. "I suppose you could say that, Bruce. How much of last night do you remember, exactly?"

Bruce smirked. "Exactly? I remember getting drunk, hiding the bottle in the pantry where I knew Alfred would eventually find it, and putting on my suit. Everything else is just a blur. I take it you were there for some of it?"

Nodding, Clark folded his arms across his chest. He was feeling very uncomfortable. "The last bit, yeah."

Bruce seemed to consider for a moment before sighing and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Well then, I'm sure between the two of you, you can fill me in on most of what I don't remember." Bruce took took a bite out of his toast, and Clark's eyes trailed the motion ravenously.

"It suppose Alfred would have to start then." Clark looked expectantly at the butler, curious as to what had happened before he arrived.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Well, once I found the bottle of champagne, it didn't take long for me to find several complaints to the police about the Batmobile playing several songs from ACDC, Coldplay, Lifehouse, and Kansas at a very loud vollume. I called you to request that you return home. You asked for spaghetti-os."

Clark snorted at the same time as Bruce asked incredulously, "Spaghetti-os?" Recognizing the sound he had made, Bruce shot Clark a glare before returning his attention to Alfred.

"Yes, Master Wayne. I informed you that we had none, and, when you refused to return home, I called Master Kent to request his help. He'll have to tell you the rest of the story, Master Wayne."

With that the butler left the room, leaving the two caped heroes alone. Clark sighed as he went to sit down next to Bruce on the bed, though maintaining a respectable distance of course. "Champagne, huh?"

Bruce shot him a smirk. "Vodka's not really my thing, and wine just gets old after a while."

Clark nodded. "Do you remember why you got drunk in the first place?" He knew he was prying, but Bruce was important to him. Besides, he was was a reporter. It was his job to pry.

The dark look Bruce gave him was enough to give him some small regret for asking. "Yes, I do, but I'm not telling you."

Clark might have laughed at the petulant tone of Bruce's voice, but the billionaire looked decidedly... bitter, so he didn't want to push it. He nodded his understanding and continued where Alfred left off.

"When Alfred called, I immediately flew over here and found you. You were taking on a group of about 8 thugs, though you had already been stabbed by then. I hadn't realized it at first because I was so shocked at how a drunk Batman behaves." Clark was smirking slightly at the end, a mischievous glint to his blue eyes.

Bruce grimaced. "And how did a drunk Batman behave?"

Clark laughed as he recalled. "The first thing you said when I got there was that you wished you had a cool superhero landing like me. You were basically bemoaning the fact that all you did was glare and punch."

Bruce's grimace turned into into a full on wince, but he viciously ripped off and piece off his toast with his teeth to cover it. He motioned with his hand for Clark to continue, so he did.

"Next, I asked you to come back to the cave, but you refused, calling me 'Supey Dupey Man.' Then, when you tried to walk away, you kind of... collapsed. You looked rather surprised to not be standing anymore, which is understandable. But then you..." Clark hesitated, unsure of how much to include.

Bruce seemed to understand his trepidation, because he placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Clark, I need you to tell me everything, okay?" It took a minute, but Clark eventually nodded and Bruce removed his hand. "Thank you."

"When you were on the ground, you seemed to realize you were wounded for the first time. You got some of the blood from your injury on your fingers and said, 'I made paint,' before using your own blood to draw a face on the alley wall."

Bruce stared at him with raised eyebrows, a disbelieving frown gracing his lips. Clark bit back a laugh at the expression. "I'm serious, Bruce. You were really freaking me out. For a minute there I thought you'd finally snapped and lost your sanity before I remembered that you were drunk."

Bruce huffed a sound of amusement, but his face remained neutral. It was creepy, like someone laughing without smiling. "What happened next?"

"Well, I helped you to your feet, but you collapsed again, so I er-" Clark cleared his throat, "picked you up bridal style." Seeing that Bruce wasn't reacting to this piece of information, Clark quickly moved on. "You laughed-" giggled, "and said that you fell and I caught you. Then you asked me if I could keep a secret." Clark shot a shy glance over at Bruce to see him looking more pale than normal. He grew worried for his friend. "Bruce?"

The billionaire cleared his throat. "What did you say? When I asked if you could keep a secret, what did you say?"

Clark smiled softly. "I said yes." Hearing the question before it was asked, Clark went ahead and answered. "Then you told me a secret."

The alien heard Bruce's heart skip a beat and even more color drained from his face. An expression kin to panic clouded his eyes and his breaths came in shorter intervals. "What secret?" When Clark hesitated, Bruce grabbed his bicep and squeezed hard, not that it did the indestructible alien much harm. "Clark, what secret did I tell you?"

The reporter was actually rather impressed by how calm Bruce managed to sound. Clark guessed that was just the man's ninja training paying off. Clark stared directly into Bruce's deep brown eyes, trying to calm him with just a look. Unfortunately, he seemed to do the opposite of his goal, because Bruce just breathed faster and squeezed harder.

Clark sighed, a sound full of the fondness he felt for the other man. "You said you're in love with me." Bruce looked like he's might faint. "Then you fell asleep in my arms and I carried you back here. I'm sure the cleaning up your wounds part is rather self-explanatory, so-"

"Clark-"

"No, Bruce. If you don't want to talk about it then I won't push you."

"Clark-"

"Don't. Bruce, please don't." Clark gave him a pleading look, trying not to reveal how truly desperate he was. "Don't say that you didn't mean it and you were just drunk. Don't say I mean nothing to you. Please, don't say it, because I've finally got my hopes up. I understand that you were drunk when you said it, that there was no way you would have said it it'd you'd been sober, but damn it, Bruce, just let let me have this. Just let me have this one thing to hope for. Please."

Superman felt tears well up behind his eyes, though he wouldn't permit them to fall. He knew his crystal blue eyes were giving away all the emotions his heart was feeling than he hadn't actually said, but he couldn't bring himself to look Bruce in the eye. He brought the lids down over his orbs to block out the world, waiting for Bruce to try to push him away.

Instead, he felt a calloused hand slip under his jaw, tilting his head up and toward Bruce. Clark's breath hitched, but he wouldn't open his eyes. Just this once, he allowed his fear of rejection to get the better of him.

Bruce's voice was gentle, far more gentle than Clark had ever heard it. His voice was a whisper, and Clark might have missed it if it weren't for his superhuman hearing. "Clark... open your eyes. Please."

Bruce Wayne just said please. How could Clark resist that? He slowly pealed his eyes open and his heart tripped over itself before it regained it's footing. Bruce was looking at him with the most tender, loving expression Clark had ever seen. Clark was sure there was never before a moment in history where Bruce was so open and honest and human... and to Clark he had never looked more beautiful.

Clark swallowed thickly, trying to regain some semblance of control over his heart and lungs. He quickly realized that was a futile effort when he was looking straight into those gorgeous brown eyes, but Clark didn't have the will power to look away. Hell, Green Lantern wouldn't have had the will power to look away in his position.

"Clark-" Bruce had ro cut himself off to swallow. "Clark, I love you. It wasn't just something I said because I was drunk. I did mean it. I've loved you for so long... Oh god, Clark, I... please tell me you care for me too, because if you don't I-"

Clark cut him off with a kiss, a small, short peck to his lips that shut him up immediately. "Bruce, I love you, too. I have for years. I just... I never imagined you could feel the same way." Clark pulled him into another kiss, not knowing what else to say and feeling like this said all that was needed.

Bruce immediately reciprocated, a low moan sounding in his throat as their lips moved against each other. The billionaire swiped his tongue along the crease between Clark's lips, taking advantage of the following gasp to slide his tongue inside his mouth and taste the flavor that was so undeniably Clark Kent. He tasted like mint and chocolate and something that might have been pumpkin, and somehow the combination wasn't half as bad as one might expect.

Clark was like stardust that glowed and sparkled under his touch. And he certainly was touching, running his hands over Clark's cheeks, through his hair, across his strong back and the chest that was just as firm and solid as he'd always believed it to be. Bruce was in awe at the feeling of Clark touching him too - warm hands gripping his hips tightly, almost desperately, wrapping around his waist and tugging him into his lap. Bruce was more than happy to oblige to this man that wanted him as much as he wanted the other - a fact he could scarcely wrap his mind around - and he made a groaning sound deep in his throat at the hard bulge that's pressed against him where he a straddled Clark. God, he must be huge to make that large of a tent. A wave of heat surged through him at the thought of feeling that inside him, of Bruce being inside of Clark, of blowjobs and hand jobs and so many things that they could do to each other now that the relentless pining was over and-

"Ahem."

The two superheroes' lips jerked apart at the sound of Alfred clearing his throat. A blush ravaged Clark's face and Bruce found it entirely endearing, but he turned away from the man he loved - from the man who loved him, too - to turn to his butler. "Alfred... How kind of you to interrupt."

Clark let put a bark of laughter that made Bruce feel rather proud inside, but the raised eyebrow of his butler made it difficult to maintain that pride.

"I was merely coming at ask if you'd like to finish your breakfast or if I should take it away now."

Forcing down a smile, Bruce gave Clark a positively suggestive look. "You can take it, Alfred, thank you. I have an appetite for something else at the moment." He had held eye contact with Clark as he said it, and the shiver he saw run through the reporter was completely worth the disapproving sound Alfred made.

"Very well, Master Bruce. Seeing as it is after one o'clock in the afternoon, I suppose you'll be skipping lunch as well?"

"Yes, Alfred. I don't think we'll need it."

"Well then, I'll see you at supper." Alfred walked to the door, but paused before leaving. "Oh, and Master Bruce, might I suggest, for future reference, next time you have the desire to make love to Master Kent, it would be considerate of you to close the door before hand."

Clark went red as a tomato, and Bruce genuinely smiled at the sight. "I appreciate the advice, Alfred. Just a thought, I don't recall being a cock-blocker as a part of your job description." Bruce finally broke eye contact with Clark to look over his shoulder at Alfred.

What he saw was quite a shock. Alfred Pennyworth was actually smirking at Bruce Wayne. "I suppose that makes me an over achiever, Master Bruce." With that, Alfred left the room, making a point to close the door behind him.

Bruce turned back to Clark to see the man staring staring at him like a food he intended to devour. His pupils were blown wide, his breaths were sporadic, and his skin was flushed red - whether it was with embarrassment or arousal didn't make a difference, because it was an unbelievably irresistible turn on - and Bruce found himself growing harder than he had been in years.

He looked down at their bodies. Bruce was still straddling Clark, and he into had no intention to stop, and their twin errections were quite an appealing sight (let's not mention just how much bigger Clark was than Bruce). But the thing that really drew Bruce's attention was their clothes.

Apparently, Alfred had given Clark a pair of Bruce's old sweats to sleep in, and they were not doing anything to hold back the alien's straining errection. Bruce, on the other hand, was still wearing only his skin-tight briefs.

The billionaire looked up and gave Clark a critical look before a flirty smile appeared on his face. "Mr. Kent, I appear to be mostly naked. Care to join me?"


End file.
